


you are mine to keep warm

by penchant



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, gays at sleepaway camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penchant/pseuds/penchant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>And yet, even though they seemed to be polar opposites, Arthur and Eames always understood each other and had fallen into step with one another from the time they met.</em>
</p><p>Wherein Arthur and Eames met at sleepaway camp five years ago and started to slowly fall in love, mixed with present day angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are mine to keep warm

**Author's Note:**

> Props to Ingrid Michaelson for the title. 
> 
> I do have to warn for minor character death - nothing gory, but it is a salient part of the story.
> 
> This fic would not have gotten past the first thousand words without my wonderful friend [Zoë](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Icewolf51/pseuds/Icewolf51), who actually sent me an mp3 of herself screaming at me to finish.
> 
> Also thank you to [squilf](http://squilf.livejournal.com), who, in her own words is "devilishly good-looking and talented." No, really, she's brilliant.

Even though they’ve only been dating for a year, it needs to be said that Eames has been in love with Arthur for a considerably longer amount of time.

They met five summers ago at Camp Twin Lakes, and they had been best friends from the beginning. No one, Eames included, really understood  _why_ they clicked - Eames was fun-loving and boisterous, always up for anything, whether that “anything” implied skinny dipping in the lake past curfew or leading a raid on girl’s camp or any other rebellious activity. He always had a smile on his face and loved to make people laugh. Everyone knew Eames and everyone loved him. Even the camp director was wrapped around his finger, charmed despite herself.

Arthur, on the other hand, was practically the anti-Eames. He seemed out of place at Camp Twin Lakes - he was reserved and guarded and generally shied away from the late night rendezvous that occupied his bunkmates’ time. He didn’t like very many people at camp - he thought they were all foolish or immature, not worth his energy. But what few people he did like he gave his trust completely, sure that they wouldn’t abuse it.

And yet, even though they seemed to be polar opposites, Arthur and Eames always understood each other and had fallen into step with one another from the time they met. 

Which is why, even though Arthur lives over two hours away, even though it’s the middle of junior year and Eames has a shitload of homework due tomorrow, even though he technically can’t even drive legally for another month, all it takes is Arthur’s broken voice choking out his name over the phone for Eames to drop his pencil and say, “I’m on my way, darling. I’m on my way.”

+++++

The first thing Arthur ever said to Eames was, “Your sheets are uneven.”

Eames swiveled his head in the direction of the voice that was obviously addressing him. His gaze fell on a boy who was looking up at his top bunk with a contemptuous expression on his face. He wore the standardized uniform, which was required for everyone, but somehow he managed to make the navy blue and forest green combination look  _good._

He grinned at Arthur and climbed down the ladder. “I apologize for the eyesore, uh . . .”

“Arthur,” Arthur supplied, the expression on his face saying that he was clearly not amused. No matter.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arthur,” Eames said sardonically. “I’m Eames.”

Arthur scoffed. “Eames? What kind of name is that?”

“A brilliant name is what it is,” Eames replied, mock affronted.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “It’s your last name, isn’t it?” He said this matter-of-factly, in a tone that left no room for debate despite the fact that it was a question.

Eames shrugged nonchalantly. “It may be.”

Arthur smirked at him. “It says so on the sign above your bed, Regi-”

Eames moved at lightning speed, covering Arthur’s mouth with his hand. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he said, then, “Shit.” He took his hand off of Arthur’s mouth and gazed back at the sign he had completely overlooked that did, in fact, advertise him as Reginald Eames. “Shit,” he repeated, rummaging around his already messy storage cubbies.

Arthur watched momentarily, then walked toward his own cubby and got a Sharpie within five seconds. 

“I’m assuming you’re looking for a Sharpie?” Arthur said, holding it out toward Eames.

Eames turned around to look at Arthur, and relief immediately washed over his features. “Oh, thank you, Arthur,” he said, making a grab for the marker. 

Arthur pulled his hand back. “Why do you want it so badly?” he asked.

Eames scowled, and paired with the frantic look in his eyes, he looked much, much younger than twelve. “Give me the bloody marker, Arthur,” he hissed.

“Not until you tell me why you so badly want your name off the sign,” he said. Eames was about to call him something that was probably not allowed in the bunk - or, anywhere, really - when he realized that Arthur actually seemed to be genuinely curious, not mocking.

Eames figured his chances of finding his own Sharpie before someone else saw the sign were second to none, so he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Because it’s my father’s name and we don’t get on well, okay?” he said, then paused. “It’s also just a god awful name.”

Arthur’s features shifted slightly as he wordlessly handed the Sharpie over. Eames took it gratefully and quickly climbed back up to his top bunk. He vigorously crossed off the Reginald on his name sign until all that was left was the Eames. He climbed back down and handed the Sharpie back to Arthur, who was now sitting on his bed. 

“Sorry about earlier,” Arthur said, and well . . . he sounded sincere. “I just wanted -”

“To know, yeah,” Eames said and sat down next to Arthur, not bothering to ask permission. It  was technically his bed as well. “You sure have some unusual tactics.”

Arthur shrugged. He looked like he was debating saying something to Eames. “Look - if it makes any difference, I don’t really get on well with my dad, either.”

Eames looked at him, a little surprised that Arthur had shared this piece of information - he didn’t seem like the type to share that kind of thing with someone he’d just met. But then again, Eames knew himself, and he knew  _he_ wasn’t that type. It was just something about Arthur...

But Eames didn’t particularly want to have this conversation now, didn’t really want to have this conversation  _ever_ , so instead of continuing down the line of confessions, he barked out a laugh and said, “Look at us - it’s our first day of camp and we’re already poster boys for teenage angst.”

Arthur cracked a small smile. “We are kind of pathetic, aren’t we?”

“I am nothing of the sort. You, on the other hand . . .” Eames trailed off and gave Arthur a once-over. 

Arthur slapped him lightly on the shoulder, and smiled a real, full-on grin. “Says the guy whose cubbies are already messy. Seriously, how the fuck did that happen?”

Eames just lightly punched his shoulder in response, and that was that. The two of them were best friends.

+++++

Eames is gripping the steering wheel so hard it hurts. He wishes he could drive quicker, get to Arthur faster, but pressing the speed limit could screw him over. The last thing Arthur needs is for Eames to be pulled over for speeding and busted for not having his license.

But it’s killing him to have to go at speed limit, killing him that it’ll still take an hour and a half before he reaches Arthur. He presses the gas pedal just a little bit harder, watches the speedometer creep up.

He tries to clear his mind, think only of his driving, but of course in trying not to think about anything, the dam in his mind breaks and a million and one thoughts flood into him. He and Arthur talk as much as they can - texting, calling each other, even just opening Skype while they do homework. But Eames has never heard Arthur’s voice sound like that before. Like he was choking just getting Eames’ name out. His grip on the steering wheel tightens as he remembers, and he puts his foot down on the gas just a little bit harder, speed limit be damned.

+++++

One of the main things Eames found he initially liked best about Arthur was that he was someone Eames couldn’t read easily. From the state of his cubbies, the precise way he folded his clothes and made his bed, and the way he had a schedule for himself that was almost more detailed than the camp’s schedule, Eames had presumed that Arthur would be all about academia and the arts and a terrible athlete. 

This prediction is proven wrong on two counts: the first being that Arthur was positively lethal at non-team sports, and the second being that he was ridiculously terrible at anything and everything relating to the arts.

“Fucking fuck,” Arthur muttered to no one in particular. Eames turned around and saw Arthur glaring at his piece of paper and the destroyed piece of charcoal that was spread thin over it. Eames held back a laugh.

“Arthur,” Eames said, smirking. “All we had to do was draw a landscape with charcoal. Even Yusuf managed not to destroy anything.”

“Shut up, Eames,” Arthur growled. “I can’t believe I broke the charcoal. It ruined my drawing!”

“I think you did that yourself,” Eames said. When Arthur’s scowl deepened, Eames added, “Cheer up. We have tennis next. Maybe if you’re especially cruel you can make Nash cry again.”

“I can’t help it if he can’t play tennis the right way,” Arthur griped, but Eames could see the smile he was trying to hide.

“No, but you can help the amount of threats and insults you shout at him.”

Arthur flushed and groaned, ducking his head to try and hide his blush. “It’s a heat of the moment thing,” he muttered. Then, a little louder, he added, “Besides, Nash is a fuckface. He deserves it.”

“Nash is indeed a fuckface. But no one deserves an Arthur-Styled Tongue Lashing. I’m 99% sure that could be considered a cruel and unusual punishment by your constitution.”

“Really, Eames: shut the fuck up,” Arthur groaned, looking back up at him.

“I don’t think I will,” Eames said with a smile.

“Maybe I’ll request to play against you during tennis. See how long it takes to make you cry,” Arthur said pointedly.

Eames widened his eyes dramatically. “You wouldn’t. You like me too much.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’ve known you for two weeks. I don’t have qualms about making you cry.”

“Just you wait and see. I’ll start crying and you’ll feel so extremely bad that you’ll shower me with gifts and cater to my every whim.”

“If you say so, Eames,” he said, and then sighed. “Alright, let me see your drawing.”

Eames had been subtly adding little details throughout his whole conversation with Arthur, and Arthur finally appeared to have noticed. 

Eames held it up and almost laughed at the expression of disbelief that appeared on Arthur’s face.

“Jesus Christ, I give up,” he muttered, looking disdainfully down at his own ruined drawing. “How do you even _do_ that? Whenever I try anything it just looks like complete and utter shit.” 

“It’s not that hard, really. You just draw what you observe.”

Arthur just shook his head in disbelief. “You make it sound so  easy. ” 

“And you make all these sports look easy, and I can barely go an activity period without accidentally injuring myself or someone else, so we’re even.”

“Hey,” Arthur said, sitting up straighter. “Hey, what if we helped each other get better? I could help you with some sports and you could help me with art.”

Eames gaped dramatically. “What? Is  _the_ Arthur Davidson asking for  _my_ help? Oh, joyous day!”

Arthur picked up a handful of grass and threw it at him. “God, you are such a bastard sometimes.”

“It’s a talent,” Eames said with a shrug. A beat. “Although, I do admit, it would be nice to be able to play archery without almost killing everyone within range of me.”

“So I’ll help you with archery, and you can teach me to draw. Done,” Arthur said, smiling at Eames. 

Eames couldn’t help but smile back. “Okay, sure. We have a deal, then.”

It would take three more summers, but eventually Eames would win the “Golden Arrow” award, and Arthur would have a drawing framed on the wall of the Art Shack. 

They would both credit each other.

+++++

Eames hits traffic about an hour and a half into the drive. And not just slow moving cars - it’s a complete and total standstill.

“Bloody buggering fuck,” Eames mutters, leaning on his horn, despite the fact that he knows it won’t do anything. He curses whoever must’ve gotten in an accident, because really, why else would there be traffic on a Wednesday night in the middle of January?

He takes his phone out and shoots off a quick text to Arthur.  _im going as fast as posible, ran in2 traffic. u americans shud rly lern 2 drive._ He knows Arthur deserves a call, not a text, but Eames can’t bear the thought of hearing his broken voice again, especially since he can’t bloody  do anything about it while he’s stuck in traffic.

When five minutes pass and Arthur still hasn’t responded, Eames starts to worry. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve made a joke, maybe Arthur’s too upset for that or - 

He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when his phone vibrates. He looks down to see what Arthur’s said.  _You’ve been an American citizen since you were nine, Eames._ Eames lets out a huff of breath that could be a soft laugh and gives a small smile.

Then someone honks behind him and screams, “Move, asshole!” effectively jolting Eames back to reality. He flips them off and moves an inch forward, still almost bumper to bumper with the car in front of him. 

He doesn’t care what it takes, he will bloody well get to Arthur before the evening ends.

+++++

The first time Eames broke a bone, it was Arthur’s fault.

It was about halfway through their second summer, and it was a testament to how much time they’d spent together their first year that when Arthur said, “I’m going with him,” no one questioned it, even though it was a blatant disregard of camp rules. Well, Eames likes to think that was why. It probably also had something to do with the fact that Arthur was just as intimidating at age thirteen as he is today.

After spending five minutes in a stretcher in the back of an ambulance, Eames said, “Darling, I can feel you worrying from here.” This had been the summer the pet names had begun, and although Arthur had initially resisted them, he had given up by now.

“I can’t help it,” Arthur said. Eames knew his eyebrows must be furrowed, even if he could only see the ceiling of the ambulance.

“It’s probably only broken, nothing serious.”

“Nothing - Eames, a broken arm is plenty serious!” Arthur exclaimed. Then he sighed and said, “Jesus, Eames, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Arthur,” Eames said, his tone stern yet gentle, a combination only he could manage.

“It is! I bent your arm too far back and -”

“Arthur!” Arthur fell silent.

“If you apologize to me one more time, I swear to God I will personally throw you out of this ambulance, bad arm and all.”

“Sorry,” Arthur said in a softer voice.

Eames made a pointed noise and he could almost feel Arthur blush. “Sor -- Christ, I give up.”

Eames huffed out a laugh. “Really, it’s okay. I’ve never had a broken bone before, and now I have a badass story about how I got it fighting someone with a red belt. Also, the pity card will totally help me pick up girls,” Eames said. 

Truth? It hurt a lot and Eames was quite bummed about possibly missing out on Colour War, but he hated seeing Arthur feel so guilty.

“Because you totally need the pity card to pick up girls,” Arthur said, his tone unreadable. Eames wished he could see his face, read his expression.

“Arthur!” he exclaimed, instead of delving deeper into that comment. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” Arthur grumbled, but Eames could hear his smile.

It turned out that Eames had fractured his ulna, and although Arthur never apologized again, he spent all two and a half weeks of the remaining summer playing cards with Eames during the activities he couldn’t participate in.

All things considered, Eames thought it was much better than Colour War.

+++++

Eames doesn’t actually see the accident for another twenty-five minutes. When he finally does spot it, he can’t help but cringe - it is, in complete honesty, one of the worst crashes he’s ever seen. The back car looks like it rammed into the other car head on, and there’s smoke rising from the place where they connect.

Then Eames realizes he’s rubbernecking, and almost laughs at the fact that he’s doing exactly what he had cursed out earlier. He inches back to normal speed and, as soon as he can’t see the accident anymore, he presses down on the gas pedal so hard he thinks it might break. He has to make up for lost time, and besides, he figures all the police in town won’t be as concerned with someone speeding with an accident that bad, anyways.

+++++

Eames had been pretty sure he was bi since he found out what it was, but up until Arthur, he had only ever been with girls. He considered some boys attractive, sure, but mostly just called himself bi because he could see the advantages of being in a relationship with another guy and didn’t want to limit himself. However, he always imagined himself ending up with a girl, when he did imagine it.

Arthur changed all of that.

Arthur with his deep brown eyes and dimples that only Eames seemed to be able to coax out. Arthur with his slender yet completely toned body. Arthur who had everything that could possibly be under his control completely organized. Arthur whose hair was only loose when it was wet, who can make someone he dislikes cry with a few verbal blows but only does so if you cross him or someone he cares about. Arthur with his beautiful laugh. Arthur who is so guarded sometimes it hurts. 

Arthur who’s been Eames’ best friend since they were twelve.

When he lets himself thinks about it, he’d really like to spend the rest of his life with Arthur - but that’s a terrifying thought on so many levels, so he tries not to think about it.

It was their third summer that seemed to wake up some part of Eames, a part that said,  _Duh, Arthur’s everything you want and he’s right there. You love  him, you idiot._

Their third summer was . . . a tough one, for Eames. It was the summer right after his mom died.

Eames had been close with his mom, and her death devastated him.  It happened just two weeks before Eames left for camp - he hadn’t wanted to go back to Twin Lakes, but his dad had all but forced him onto the bus, insisting he needed to have fun. That was about the last thing Eames wanted to do, but he also understood that his dad needed some time alone, so he didn’t put up much of a fight. Eames himself may not be completely fond of his father, but to say his parents hadn’t loved each other would be a lie. 

His bus ended up being the first to arrive at camp, but it didn’t fill Eames with the usual excitement. It did mean he would be the first to choose a bed in his assigned bunk, and although this was a big deal, Eames couldn’t bring himself to care. He walked towards bunk B3 on autopilot, faked a smile when one of his counselors introduced themselves and chose a bed with a window. He began to unpack his things semi-robotically.

“Hey, man, I’m Nate. I’m gonna be your group leader this summer,” he heard Nate say to some new camper that had just walked into the bunk.

“I’m Arthur,” Arthur responded. Eames wanted to be overjoyed at hearing his voice, knowing he was here, but he couldn’t bring himself to it.

He straightened up and took a shaky breath, plastering a smile on his face and preparing to play happy. 

“Great, great, nice to meet you, Arthur. I’m assuming you know the drill, just choose whichever bed you want and start unpacking. Me, Jake or Remy, your other counselors, will be more than happy to help you if you need it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur replied, already heading toward Eames.

The thing was, Arthur didn’t know about Eames’ mom’s death. They had started a tradition before second summer, where they didn’t talk to each other for the two weeks preceding camp. It was Arthur’s own way of building the excitement of them actually seeing each other, and even though Eames recognized he probably could’ve broken it to tell Arthur about his mom - probably should’ve, actually - he hadn’t.

He heard Arthur’s duffle bags wheeling across the floor, his shoulder bag bumping against his chest as he approached Eames. 

“Hey, is this bed taken?” Arthur asked, indicating the bed below the one Eames had claimed as his own. Eames could hear the smile in his voice, hear how happy he was to see Eames.

Eames looked up to see he was right, Arthur  _was_ smiling. “Just by some git I know,” he responded.

Arthur’s grin fell immediately. “Eames, what’s wrong?” 

“What are you talking about, darling? I’m feeling right as rain,” Eames said, although it sounded fake even to his ears, like he was trying too hard.

“Stop feeding me this bullshit, Eames, I can tell when something’s wrong,” Arthur said, looking at Eames with a concerned expression.

Eames should’ve known that he was naïve in hoping Arthur would never find out.

He sighed. “Can I just . . . can I tell you later?” Eames asked, really not wanting to discuss it and harbouring a blind hope that maybe Arthur would forget.

Arthur hesitated for a second and then nodded, and Eames gave him a genuine smile then - granted, it was a small smile, but it was still genuine, and it was still there.

They unpacked in silence for a few minutes, until Arthur broke the silence by rattling off everything that had happened in the month they hadn’t been talking, all in that organized way of his. Emily, his older sister, had gotten her first boyfriend; his friend Ariadne had broken her leg running track; he and his friend Robert had gone together to a Decemberists concert and almost met Colin Meloy. On and on he went, unpacking his clothes and making his bed all the while. 

And the miraculous thing was that it did make Eames feel better. Arthur even made Eames laugh, which Eames hadn’t done in what felt like ages. Eames started exchanging his own stories, carefully editing out any mentions of his mom. By dinnertime, Eames was feeling so much better than he had before.

When the annual Counselor Show rolled around, Eames could almost convince himself that it was any ordinary summer, that he’d spend seven weeks here with Arthur and then return home to both of his parents - but, of course, the realization that his mom wouldn’t be there always struck at the worst moments.

The Counselor Show ended and they began to clear out the amphitheatre. Eames stood up, feeling lethargic and nostalgic, and wanting nothing more than to fall asleep forever.

Arthur’s natural curiosity and well-hidden (but still present) mama bear complex had other plans.

Eames was sitting cross legged on his bed, reading a book, when Arthur spoke.

“Hey,” Arthur said softly. “Can I come up?”

Eames shrugged his shoulders, which Arthur seemed to take as a yes. He climbed up the ladder and plopped himself onto Eames’ bed, sitting cross-legged across from him.

“So?” Arthur asked.

“So what?” Eames asked back, aware he was being petulant and not really caring.

“What’s wrong, Eames? And don’t feed me anymore bullshit - I haven’t seen you this upset since your cat died in the middle of first summer,” Arthur said, staring at Eames with the same concerned expression he had worn earlier.

Eames sighed, deciding there was really no point in beating around the bush. “Two weeks ago . . . well, my mom died.” He wished he could blame puberty for the way his voice cracked.

“Eames . . . Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry,” Arthur said. And Eames -  well, many people had said that to Eames over the past two weeks, but no one sounded as sincere as Arthur did. “God, what happened? I mean, of course you don’t have to tell me, but . . .”

“She just died in her sleep. There was nothing wrong with her. She just fell asleep and the next morning we wake up and she’s fucking dead,” Eames said, and fuck, he could feel his eyes starting to dampen.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but I really am so sorry, Eames,” Arthur said, sounding so sincere it just broke Eames - because as much as Eames knew Arthur cared about him, Arthur was never really the type to  _show_ it.

“I know you are,” Eames said, except it came out muffled and weak and  _wrong._

“Okay, okay, this is probably the wrong thing to ask, but - why didn’t you tell me sooner? You know what, God, that was so insensitive, I’m so sorry - ”

“I don’t know,” Eames said, but he was crying now, really crying. Thank God he cried quietly - the last thing he needed was for one of his counselors to hear him and try and comfort him. “I guess . . . well, I guess I just didn’t want it following me here, to camp.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed together. He took a deep breath and said, “Look, I - I know that I’m a bit of an ass -”

Even upset, Eames couldn’t let that comment pass. “More than a bit, love.”

“I just . . .” Arthur continued, ignoring Eames. “Know that I’ll always be here for you. You’re my best friend, and I care about you a lot, okay?” Arthur was looking straight into Eames’ eyes, his gaze so tender and honest. The intenseness of his gaze and Eames’ astonishment over the fact that Arthur was  actually being honest distracted Eames enough that it took him longer than it should’ve to realize that . . . fucking fuck,  _Arthur was holding his hand._

At some point during his confession, Arthur had taken one of Eames’ hands in both of his own. He was rubbing one of his thumbs in circles around Eames’ wrist, and Eames . . . Eames didn’t know what to do.

His gaze fell to where Arthur’s hands covered his own, and he felt Arthur tense up and freeze once he realized what he was doing. He immediately removed his hands and said, “Oh, lights out is probably soon, I should - night!” He practically leapt out of his sitting position and scrambled down the ladder to his bed.

Eames’ hand felt warm for the rest of the night.

Neither of them mentioned the hand holding thing again, but Arthur stayed true to his word. Eames cried four more times over the course of the summer, and Arthur was always there to coax him back to normal with jokes or overly incessant rants about Nash or the incompetence of their counselors.

By the time the summer ended, being in love with Arthur was as much a part of Eames as his overuse of pet names and love for the arts.

He didn’t really mind that at all.

+++++

Arthur lives alone.

That’s not something many people know, but Arthur is practical, and for his 16th birthday he applied for early emancipation and went apartment shopping with his parents. He wanted to get a taste of the responsibility of living alone while his parents were still close by.

When Eames buzzes in around ten o’clock, he gets a response almost immediately. He bolts up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, sprinting until he gets to apartment 5B.

He manages to restrain himself and doesn’t pound on the door like he wants to, but it’s a close thing. The door swings open almost immediately, and Eames sees Arthur for the first time since last summer.

He looks, quite frankly, like shit. His eyes are red and puffy, his hair is ruffled, and - in a truly non-Arthur style - his clothes have stains.  _And he’s still wearing them._ Directly behind him is the living room and kitchen area, and Eames sees that the kitchen floor is littered with broken beer bottles.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames says, and envelops him. Unlike the many other times Eames has properly hugged Arthur, Arthur doesn’t even try to fight Eames off. He just buries himself into Eames, bundling himself into Eames’ bulky frame.

Eames rubs his hands over Arthur’s back in large, soothing circles. “Shh . . . shh, darling, shh . . .” he murmurs as Arthur starts to make choked sobbing noises.

The shoulder of Eames’ shirt is starting to feel wet, but he doesn’t care, couldn’t ever care when Arthur is with him like this. “Darling . . . darling, it’s alright. It’s okay.” Eames realizes idly he doesn’t even know what’s wrong, but he puts that thought away for another time, a time when Arthur doesn’t need him so immediately.

“It’s not!” Arthur manages. “Fuck, it’s not okay, she’s - she’s -”

A new round of sobs racks Arthur’s body, and Eames coaxes him through it, murmuring nonsensical reassurances into Arthur’s ear.

Eames reaches one hand out and shuts the door, thankful Arthur seems too out of it to care that any of his neighbors could’ve witnessed that whole scene.

Eames puts his arm back around Arthur, hugging him as hard as he dares. Eventually, Arthur’s cries start to taper off slowly. He sniffles a bit and reaches one of his hands up to wipe at his face, looking up at Eames. 

“Fuck, I - ” Arthur starts, and has to take a stuttering breath to steady himself. “Fuck.”

“Don’t worry, love, it’s fine,” Eames says, voice comforting and soothing.

“I never cry,” Arthur says, almost scolding himself. “I never cry, but she - ”

Arthur’s voice is steadily rising and Eames takes his hands off of Arthur’s back, nudges him slightly away. He sees Arthur’s face, stained red from all the crying, and reaches out a hand. “Come, love, let’s just sit down, okay?” 

Arthur sniffles a bit and nods, and they take a few steps until they’re on the couch, Eames sitting cross-legged with Arthur’s head in his lap. 

Although Eames thought this might be met with resistance, Arthur takes to their new position immediately, stretching out his legs and burying himself against Eames’ chest.

He breathes in deeply and lets out a deep, stuttering sigh. “ ’ve always loved the way you smelled.” 

Eames lets out a small chuckle and cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “You okay?”

“No . . . no, I’m not, but at least I’m not crying anymore.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed of that, you know. I don’t care if you’re a mess; in fact, I’d much rather you get it out now with me than keep it all in,” Eames says softly.

Arthur just buries his face deeper into Eames chest.

Eames looks up for a split second and re-discovers the kitchen floor covered in broken beer bottles. “Can I ask what those beer bottles did to offend you?” he asks.

“Existed.”

“You certainly didn’t have that attitude before,” Eames says with a smile, but it quickly changes to a frown when he feels Arthur tense up.

“I don’t drink,” he says tersely.

“Sure you do. Keep in mind I’ve seen you positively smashed, darling,” Eames responds, confused.

“I don’t drink,” Arthur insists vehemently, sitting up and looking at Eames with a wild expression in his eyes. 

Eames frowns at the loss of contact with Arthur and lightly pushes Arthur’s head back into his lap. “Alright, you don’t drink. Can I ask since when?”

Arthur is still tense when he says, “Since tonight.”

Eames just keeps carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair. He doesn’t want to push Arthur to tell him what’s wrong, even if he wants to know.

Arthur turns his face so that he’s staring straight at the ceiling instead of Eames’ shirt and says, “Emily was driving home from college to surprise my parents - it’s their anniversary in a few days, and - ” He takes a stuttering breath. “A drunk driver hit her head on. She died immediately.” His voice goes up an octave as he says this.

Eames feels a terrible churning in his gut. In the back of his mind somewhere, he makes the connection -  _he had seen that accident._ Not only had he seen it, but he had cursed it out, joked about it to Arthur indirectly. He feels terrible, even though he knows it can’t be helped. How could he have known?

“Oh, fuck, Arthur, that’s terrible, I’m so sorry,” Eames says, and Arthur is making those choked gasping noises again, burying himself into Eames thigh. 

Eames himself hadn’t really known Emily well - she hadn’t gone to Twin Lakes, so Eames had only seen her when he visited Arthur - but he knows how much Arthur loved her, knows how much she meant to him. 

“Arthur, God, I’m so sorry,” Eames murmurs, holding Arthur close to him and letting him cry. He irrationally wishes he could do something to make everything better, but if all he can do is hold Arthur while he cries, he will bloody well do that like his life depends on it.

+++++

Arthur came out to Eames during their fourth summer.

Eames was planning a raid on girl’s camp with Yusuf and some other guys during Canteen one night when Arthur came up to them, his mouth set in a determined line.

“Eames, can I talk to you?” he asked. The other boys seemed almost shocked to see him. If Eames wasn’t with him during Canteen, Arthur generally talked with some of the more intelligent counselors or just brought along a book and read.

“Not now, darling, I’ve got to - ” Eames began, still looking at Yusuf, but Arthur cut him off.

“Eames, please,” Arthur said, and there was a note in his voice that made Eames pause and look at him. His gaze was wavering, as if he was unsure about something. Eames couldn’t recall ever seeing Arthur unsure about  _anything_ before.

“Sorry, mates, maybe another night,” Eames said with a salute as he followed Arthur to an area that was out of earshot of everyone else. As they walked, Eames noticed that Arthur was biting his lip, something Eames had never seen him do before. Eames started to get nervous about what was coming, because if Arthur was nervous about something . . .

When Arthur seemed satisfied with the distance between them and the rest of the campers, he paused and looked at Eames.

“So what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until after we raided girl’s camp?” Eames asked.

“Eames,” Arthur said, and he sounded so nervous that Eames immediately let his expression fall into something more serious.

“What’s up then?” 

“I just . . . I just need to tell you something,” Arthur said, voice more muted than usual.

Eames waited a few more seconds, and when it was clear nothing more was forthcoming, he said, “Yes?”

“It’s - it’s something I’ve known for a few years now, but I - I - ”

Eames hadn’t even known Arthur was  _capable_ of stuttering. “Really, pet, I’m the only one here, and unless you’re going to tell me that you’ve just murdered my family and tortured my cats, you have nothing to be nervous about.”

Arthur shot Eames an exasperated look, and Eames just grinned back at him. “I mean it, you know.”

Arthur took a deep breath and said, “I’m gay.”

Eames was - well, shocked would be an understatement. He felt almost rooted to the spot as Arthur’s words hit him. Arthur was gay. Arthur was gay. _Arthur was gay._ Elation bolted through him - he wasn’t harbouring a completely impossible crush, because Arthur was gay, which meant that there could be a relationship between him and Arthur, because Arthur wasn’t straight, he was _gay._

The same realization, though, also hit with a thud. Eames realized distantly that this would just make it harder when Arthur chose someone who wasn’t him, but he shelved that thought for now, too intent on riding the happiness out.

“Is that . . . okay?” Arthur asked, looking nervous again. 

“Darling - I only want to know one thing,” Eames drawled. 

Arthur quirked an expectant eyebrow.

“If you’ve known for a few years, why did you wait this long to tell me?” 

A smile broke out across Arthur’s face, a real, proper smile, the kind even Eames didn’t see that often. “Really?” 

“Really. Nothing different about you, is there?” 

If possible, Arthur’s grin got even bigger. “Thanks.” A pause. “Sorry it seemed like I was doubting how you would take it, it’s just - some of my friends back home didn’t take it so well. And my family certainly didn’t.”

Eames frowned. “Even your sister? I thought you told me she was bi.”

“Well, Emily took it fine, but my parents were less than enthusiastic about having two gay kids. My dad especially was upset. For the next week and a half I kept finding different issues of Playboy on my bed. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.”

“Your dad’s an arse,” Eames said.

“That he is,” Arthur agreed. “So, you know, thanks for not being like my dad.”

Eames smiled as Arthur fumbled over his words. “Anytime, darling. It’s my pleasure.”

“Oh, and thanks for the Snickers bar,” Arthur said, looking up at Eames with innocent eyes. 

“Bastard!” Eames exclaimed when he realized that Arthur had, in fact, lifted Eames of his Snickers. “Although I must compliment your form, I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Arthur laughed, and Eames thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“What can I say? I learned from the best,” Arthur said, still grinning.

“Aw, shucks, you’re too sweet.”         

Arthur slapped him lightly on the shoulder and took a large bite out of Eames’ Snickers. 

Eames couldn’t help his eyes from wandering to Arthur’s lips.

He was so, so screwed.

+++++

Eventually, Arthur manages to cry himself to sleep in Eames’ lap. Eames keeps carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair for ten minutes before he sighs and moves Arthur’s head from his lap. Arthur makes a half awake sort of sound, slightly stirring.

“Shh, go back to sleep, I’m just going to carry you to your bed, okay?” Eames says in the most soothing voice he can manage.

“Mmmm,” Arthur sighs.

Eames stands up and puts his arms underneath Arthur’s prone body, scooping him up into his arms, bridal style. He chuckles at the picture they must paint and says, “Oh, darling, it’s a good thing you’re not awake right now or you would be having my arse for this.”

He carries Arthur to his bedroom and sets him down gently on his perfectly made bed. Eames starts to pull down the sheets and tuck Arthur in.

Once Arthur’s under the covers and sleeping soundly, Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s forehead and gets up to call his dad. He doesn’t care how much work he has to make up or how angry his dad will be when he finds out he not only snuck out, but also drove illegally - he’s staying with Arthur as long as Arthur needs him here.

+++++

The week following Arthur’s confession found Eames even more lovestruck than usual. He would catch himself staring at Arthur without even realizing it. It was embarrassing - he was sure everyone, including Arthur, knew about how he felt.

Arthur and Eames were hanging out by themselves during a choice period; Arthur was reading in his Crazy Creek chair and Eames was playing hacky sack to his right. 

All of a sudden, Arthur looked up from his book and said, “Eames, can I ask you something?”

“If you fetch my hacky sack for me,” Eames responded.

“You can’t get you own damn hacky sack?” Arthur grumbled, but he was already marking his page and standing up.

“I could, sure, but it’s so much easier to have you do so,” Eames said cheerily. Arthur flipped him off.

When Arthur returned Eames’ hacky sack to him, Eames said, “Ah, thanks, love.” He resumed bouncing it around and added, “So, you had a question?”

Arthur nodded and then, without preamble, said, “Are you sure you’re okay with me being gay?”

Eames was so startled by the question that his hacky sack fell to the ground. “What? Of course I am!”

“Are you sure? Because, I mean, I’ll understand if you’re not. I guess.” Despite the fact that Arthur refused to drop Eames’ gaze, he looked . . . scared, almost. Like he was already hurt by what he assumed Eames was going to say.

“Yes, I’m sure! What made you think otherwise?” Eames asked. 

“Well, it’s just . . . ever since I told you, I’ve caught you looking at my weirdly and I - well, it would hurt, sure, if you’re not okay with it, but it’ll hurt more if you’re just pretending. I don’t want to lose you, but - ” Arthur paused here to take a breath and square his shoulders. Eames noticed his lower lip was trembling, and he found himself captivated by it. “If you can’t accept me for who I am, then we can’t be friends anymore.”

Eames recalled Arthur saying that some of his friends hadn’t taken the news of Arthur’s sexuality so well, and wondered how many times Arthur had already said this. “Arthur, you stupid git, you’re never going to lose me!” Eames said, and kissed him.

Arthur made a surprised noise against Eames’ mouth and Eames realized, belatedly, that just because he had feelings for Arthur didn’t mean that Arthur had feelings for _him._

Eames pulled away and looked to his right, away from Arthur. “Shit, sorry, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking and - ”

Arthur put his palm on Eames’ cheek and turned Eames so that he was facing Arthur again. “Eames?” he asked, his voice tentative. Eames swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Look, Arthur, I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have done that - ” Eames began.

Arthur cut him off. “Did you mean it?” he asked softly, his eyes probing.

Eames sighed. He figured he might as well come completely clean - it wasn’t like Arthur didn’t know now. He  had just kissed him. “Yes. God, yes, I’ve wanted to do that since last summer.” 

Arthur made this noise in the back of his throat and moved towards Eames again, smiling with both his mouth and eyes. Then they were kissing again, the simple press of lips that Eames had craved for a long time.

It only lasted for six or seven seconds, and when Arthur pulled back, Eames could see that his face was slightly flushed. Arthur took his hand away from Eames’ cheek and something clicked into place for Eames. “That was your first kiss, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Arthur ducked his head, blushing even more than before. “That obvious?” he asked.

“No, no! Well, a little, but we’ll have plenty of time to work on that, won’t we?” Eames asked with a smile.

Arthur smiled back and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess we will.”

+++++

Eames’ dad picks up on the first ring.

“REGINALD HOWARD EAMES THE SECOND, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!?” he shouts, and Eames winces, holding the phone away from his ear.

“And hello to you, too, father dearest,” Eames replies, all sarcasm.

“Don’t you dare use that tone on me, mister! Where is my car and where. Are. You!?”

Eames’ rolls his eyes at his dad’s melodrama. It’s not like Eames left him totally without means of transportation; Eames’ dad owns a gorgeous Mercedes that Eames isn’t allowed to think about, let alone drive.

“I’m with Arthur, Dad,” Eames says, bracing himself for his father’s reaction.

“With Arthur, huh? Oh, well, isn’t that just swell? Isn’t it so nice that you can just completely disregard your responsibilities to visit your boyfriend, which, I might add, requires you breaking the law!”

“Dad - ” Eames begins.

“You come home this instant, Reginald,” his father hisses into the phone.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?” his father says, and Eames can hear the rage coming steadily back into his voice.

“Exactly that. No,” Eames says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I am not going to let you abandon your responsibilities just because you were feeling horny! You are going to come home right now, and if you don’t, there will be severe consequences,” Eames’ dad threatens. Eames is so upset he can’t even laugh at the fact that his dad used the word “horny” while threatening him.

“I am not coming home,” Eames says, angry and wanting to raise his voice, but not wanting to wake Arthur. “His sister just died, Dad! A drunk driver hit her head on and he  needs me. That matters a helluva a lot more to me than your fucking car or my schoolwork. I am going to stay here as long as Arthur needs me, and there’s nothing you can say or do to change that!”

There is silence on the other end of the phone. Then, in one of the most surprising moments of Eames’ life, his father just says, “Give him my condolences,” and hangs up.

Eames stares at his phone in shock for a few seconds, but then remembers: his dad knows what it feels like to lose someone you love. Eames silently thanks his dad for being understanding this one time, and then heads to the bedroom, to Arthur.

When he gets to the bed, he crawls underneath the covers and next to Arthur, breathing in his scent.

He falls asleep easily, and sleeps better than he has in months.

+++++

The PDA rules at Twin Lakes were pretty much a joke.

Sure, every year the counselors would give the obligatory talk about how kissing and hooking up were against the rules and how if you got caught doing so, there would be consequences - but as soon as they finished saying that, they would tell the campers the best places not to get caught.

Arthur and Eames most certainly took advantage of this.

There were only two weeks remaining in the summer, but they didn’t let a minute go to waste. Eames taught Arthur everything he knew about kissing, which, although it wasn’t much, did thoroughly exceed Arthur’s knowledge. 

They were behind the tennis courts, Arthur straddling Eames’ lap, his arms around Eames’ neck. They had rushed here together as soon as the free period had started and had been in this particular position for around ten minutes when Arthur pulled back, breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against Eames’ shoulder, catching his breath.

“God, you’re incredible. How are you real?” Eames breathed, stroking Arthur’s hair.

Arthur lifted his head up and looked at Eames curiously. “That’s something I should be saying,” he said, looking at Eames with so much earnesty it hurt.

“Why?”

“Because I’m nothing special, especially not compared to you,” Arthur responded, then flinched. “Shit, I didn’t mean to say that, sorry - ”

“You can’t believe that. Please tell me you don’t believe that,” Eames said, cutting him off. Arthur tried to duck his head and hide again, but Eames had already seen the answer on his face.

“Fuck, you actually believe that. How can you believe that?” Eames asked, disbelieving. 

Arthur shrugged. “It’s just the truth. You’re just amazing - funny, friendly, sociable, trustworthy - everyone loves you. I’m nothing compared to you,” he said, looking down and blushing.

“How could you possibly think that?” Eames repeats. “I mean, God, you’re the most brilliant person I know. You’re the most athletic person in our bunk - probably our whole division - and definitely one of the strongest guys on camp. You have a brilliantly sarcastic sense of humour, and you’re loyal like no one else I know,” Eames said, the paused. “And you’re not exactly an eyesore, love.”

Arthur tucked his face into Eames’ shoulder. He took a few deep breaths against Eames’ shirt. “Just . . . stop. Please,” he said softly. 

“Why?” Eames asked, running his hands lightly through Arthur’s hair. “It’s 100% true, I swear it.”

“I believe that you think that about me, but I don’t think it’s true,” Arthur said in a rare moment of vulnerability, and Eames couldn’t believe it. This was Arthur - cool, collected, confident Arthur, Arthur who had a pretty decent sized superiority complex - this was that Arthur, telling Eames he didn’t think he was anything great.

Eames was at a loss of what to do, so he did the only thing he could think of; he lifted Arthur’s head up and kissed him lightly, working his mouth delicately against Arthur’s. Arthur responded with just as chaste a kiss.

They pulled apart and Eames looked straight into Arthur’s eyes. “You’re amazing, yeah?” he said, cupping Arthur’s face between his hands.

Arthur sighed and said, “Yeah, okay,” in a voice that indicated he meant anything but.

Eames would’ve said more, but they were startled out of their position by the director talking over the loudspeaker, telling everyone it was shower time. They both stood up and brushed the grass stains off of their pants, heading back towards the bunk.

That night, Eames watched as Arthur stepped out of the shower, and not just because he was only wearing his towel. Arthur ignored Eames’ gaze, as he did every night, and headed toward his bed.

Arthur spotted the note on his pillow before he even got out of his towel. He picked it up, brow furrowing, but as he read it, his face melted into a small scowl. He stood up on the edge of his bed so that he was leaning over the railing to Eames’, which was actually quite the balancing act considering he was still only in his towel. He held up the note so Eames could see it. “Really, Eames?” he asked.

Eames donned his most innocent expression. “What?”

“I know it was you, Eames, you can give up the ghost,” Arthur said.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about, darling. Although whoever wrote this note was correct, you are quite smashing.”

“You spelled ‘quite’ wrong. No one but you would spell quite wrong,” Arthur insisted, irritated.

Eames shrugged and said, “How would you know? Have you asked everyone in the bunk to spell ‘quite?’ Not that I’d judge you too much if you did, but still, that’s a little obsessive.”

Arthur seemed to realize that he wasn’t going to to get anywhere, but he kept looking at Eames with a steady gaze. After around thirty seconds of silence, he said, “Thanks,” and quickly ducked back down to his bed.

Eames was surprised it had gone that well. He had almost expected to have watched Arthur tear up the note and throw it away. He smiled to himself, and pretended not the notice when Arthur slid the note into one of his cubbies, just like he pretends he doesn’t know that Arthur still has the note now, a year and a half later.

Sometimes Eames thinks that writing that note was one of the best decisions he ever made.

+++++ 

Eames wakes up before Arthur. It takes him a second to remember where he is, but then Arthur rolls over and Eames can’t help the smile that overtakes his face, even if the reason why he’s here is pretty terrible.

He slides out of the bed, careful not to disturb Arthur. He figures it would do Arthur more good if he got a breakfast ready for them than to just lay in bed. He pads quietly towards Arthur’s kitchen, stopping short when he spots the beer bottles that are still littering the floor.

He swears and looks around Arthur’s apartment for a broom and dust pan. He spots one leaning against the washing machine and retrieves it, stopping to put his shoes on before returning to the kitchen to start sweeping.

He’s been sweeping for around five minutes when he hears Arthur. “Sweeping, Eames? I never pegged you for the domestic type,” he says, but his voice sounds wrong, much heavier than it usually is when he’s teasing Eames.

Eames leans the broom against the counter and turns around to face Arthur. “Yeah, well,” he says with a shrug. “You feeling better?”

“Funeral’s today,” Arthur says, avoiding Eames’ question.

“This soon?” Eames asks. When his mom had died, they’d waited until that weekend before burying her.

“Jewish tradition. It’s disrespectful for the body to be left unburied for more than 24 hours,” Arthur says vaguely, looking down and shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“Alright,” Eames says, then pauses. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything presentable with me . . . actually, I don’t have anything with me besides what I’m wearing.”

Arthur looks up and straight at Eames. “You’re staying?”

A surprised expression crosses Eames’ face. “Of course I am, love, what made you think otherwise?” Eames asks.

“Well, I mean, it’s a Thursday, so you have school today, and I’m sure your dad isn’t happy with you being here and - ”

Eames kisses him just to shut him up. When he pulls back after a few seconds, he makes sure their foreheads are still touching, not wanting to give up all contact with him. “I don’t give a flying fuck about school or my dad, darling, I’d much rather be here with you.”

Arthur gives him a small smile. “Thanks,” he says, and it kills Eames that even though he’s smiling, his eyes are still dark. “You’re right, though, we do need to find you something to wear,” he adds, walking his fingers up Eames’ arm.

Eames smiles and says, “Let me finish cleaning your kitchen, and then you can dress me up in all the fancy suits you want, yeah?”

Arthur nods and they separate, Eames returning to the kitchen. As he finishes sweeping, he feels Arthur’s eyes on his back.

Eames turns around and gives him a tired smile, trying to tell him without words that everything will be okay. It’s hard to be convincing, however, when he looks at the hopelessness in Arthur’s eyes and doesn’t quite believe it at all.

+++++

Arthur and Eames broke up for four days during their fifth summer.

It started as an offhand comment from Eames one night during Canteen, grew into a small quarrel which morphed into a full out screaming match that resulted in a miserable four days during which neither of them spoke to each other.

They were sitting alone towards the back of the Canteen area when Eames noticed Dom going to the golf course with a girl from their division named Mal. “Looks like Dom’s got himself a girl,” Eames said, nudging Arthur with his shoulder.

“A little behind on that, Eames. They’ve been hooking up on the golf course for the past week,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes and taking a bite out of Eames’ Charleston Chew. Eames didn’t even pretend to be angry, as Arthur had been doing so for the past two weeks.

“I can’t help it if I’ve had more important things to focus on than Dom Cobb’s love life,” Eames said, sending a pointed glance Arthur’s way.

Arthur shrugged. “And _I_ can’t help it if you’re easily distracted,” he responded, smirking. 

“That I am,” Eames agreed and began to lean in toward Arthur.

Panic flared in Arthur’s eyes. “Not here, Eames!”

Eames sighed but retreated, as instructed.

“You know,” Eames said after a short lull in the conversation. “Sometimes I wish we could go to the golf course like everyone else. That we didn’t have to hide behind the tennis courts every time we wanted to be together.”

“You know we can’t, Eames. And besides, do you really want to be surrounded by a ton of our friends hooking up? No thanks.”

“It’s a sleepaway camp experience, love. Don’t you want to be able to brag that you hooked up with me in the bushes?” Eames asked, going for playful but somehow landing on something much more earnest.

“Not particularly. But it wouldn’t matter even if I did, because we can’t,” Arthur said, and his tone wasn’t resigned, just matter of fact, as if he had long since accepted this and didn’t even care anymore.

“We could. Who’s to say we couldn’t?” Eames said, and looking back he can admit that maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to say.

“Everyone, Eames! We’re gay! We don’t get those kind of privileges!” Arthur said fiercely, bitterness lacing his voice.

“Actually, darling, you’re gay. I’m bi,” Eames said, and that was  _really_ the wrong thing to say.

Arthur cringed. “Do you think it’ll matter? If people see us together, they won’t care that sometimes you like girls. All that will matter is the fact that you’re with a guy now!” he said, his voice getting steadily louder.

“Do you really have such little faith in everyone here, love? People are much more open-minded than you’d expect,” Eames said, disliking the tone of Arthur’s voice and wanting to get it back to normal.

“People are much more close minded than they’ll have you believe,” Arthur replied, and Eames could almost taste the venom in his voice.

“Must you be so cynical? I bet if I came out now, no one would even bat an eyelash,” Eames said, and alright, he’ll be the first to admit that he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. 

And that he seemed to have a knack for saying the wrong things. 

“Are you really that fucking naïve, Eames? You come out right now and no one will look at you the same. Even the people who accept it won’t look at you the same. You’re really fucking stupid if you think nothing will change,” Arthur said, and it was all venom in his voice, nothing else.

“Oh,  _I’m_ fucking stupid? I’m stupid because I want to be able to show everyone we’re together, because I want to tell everyone that you’re mine, because I want to parade you around and show you off like you deserve to be shown off?  _I’m_ the stupid one!?” Eames hissed, almost matching the venom in Arthur’s voice.

“Yes! You are! What you deserve and what you can actually have are two very different things, Eames, and I stopped expecting the former when I realized I liked guys,” Arthur said, and he was almost yelling now, they were both almost yelling, and Eames thanked every higher power that the volume level of the rest of the campers was enough to cover them up.

“That’s a terrible world view you have there, darling,” Eames said.

“Maybe it is,” Arthur said, his voice lowering just a bit. “But at least it’s a practical one.”

“I don’t think - ” Eames began, but Arthur cut him off. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” Arthur asked, and his voice was sharp and vicious. Eames had heard this tone from him in previous summers, but never before had he been on the receiving end. “There are people out there who will hurt us just because we’re both guys and I love you! I don’t know if you follow the news, Eames, but the world isn’t exactly full of rainbows and sunshine for people like us - oh, I’m sorry, like me, because you’re only bi, right?” A pause. “Trust me, if people knew we were together, we’d become targets instantly, regardless of how many people like you now.”

Arthur’s words were like a knife, cutting swiftly through Eames. “You could’ve just said if you were ashamed of me, Arthur,” Eames said. Confusion flashed over Arthur’s face for a few seconds before clarity washed over his features, laced with disbelief.

“Eames, God, that’s not it at all!”

“That not it at all, huh? So then why don’t you want to tell anyone we’re together?” Eames asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“I’ve told you! If I could, I would love to be able to tell everyone that we’re together, but we can’t!” he said, then took a breath to steady himself. “Jesus, Eames, we’ve been together for almost a year, how - ”

“We were,” Eames cut in, angry and upset and all of it, and if he could redo these next few moments, he would in a heartbeat.

“What?” Arthur asked, confused again.

“We  _were_ together for almost a year,” Eames said, carefully selecting his words to do the most damage. “We’re not together anymore.”

Arthur froze as Eames’ words hit him. “Eames?” Arthur whispered, and his voice was small and vulnerable, so vulnerable.

“You heard me. Over. Done. Not together. Simple as that,” Eames said, looking straight at Arthur. He watched in fascination as Arthur’s expression crumpled for a second before shifting into a neutral state. Arthur sat straight up and pushed himself into a standing position.

“Fine,” he said, his voice shaking only the slightest bit. “Fine, I never really liked you anyways,” and it was such an obvious fucking lie that Eames allowed himself a small moment of smug superiority as Arthur turned and walked back toward their bunk.

Eames watched him go, and his brain finally seemed to catch up with what had just happened. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Fucking fucking fuck.” 

He stayed in that position for the remainder of Canteen time. On the way back to the bunk, he threw away his half-eaten Charleston Chew, not hungry for it at all.

+++++

It turns out, predictably enough, that Arthur doesn’t own anything that fits Eames. This is why, less than two hours before the funeral, Eames is in a local store trying on multiple suits and striking crazy poses in an attempt to find one that fits and make Arthur smile in one go.

He does manage to accomplish both, although he’ll concede that the smile is small enough that it almost shouldn’t count. Eames still considers it a victory, if only a small one.

They step outside the shop to an unusually sunny day, especially considering that it’s January. Arthur reaches for Eames’ hand as soon as the door closes. Eames covers up a surprised noise; even though they’re technically “out,” Arthur still doesn’t tend to endorse PDA of any kind. He squeezes Arthur’s hand reassuringly.

“We need to get to the funeral house, help set up,” Arthur says, looking straight ahead.

“Okay,” Eames says agreeably.

The drive is mostly silent. Arthur - who already has his license - has a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Eames leaves his hand on Arthur’s knee, hating how tense Arthur feels and wishing he could do something about it.

A few minutes later, they pull up in front of a building with Hebrew lettering. Arthur deftly parks the car and they both step out of their respective sides. Eames is about to say something, actually, when Arthur practically throws himself at Eames.

He’s sobbing loudly, except it’s almost worse than that because he’s not actually crying, just making these terrible, terrible noises against Eames.

“Arthur . . . darling, Arthur, it’s okay, shh, it’s okay,” Eames mumbles, even though it’s obviously not, even though that’s probably the wrong thing to say.

Arthur doesn’t respond, just keeps pushing himself into Eames, almost as if he wants to get inside of him. After a few minutes, he starts to come back to himself gradually, and of course the first thing he does is apologize. “Sorry,” he says, voice shaking.

“Nothing to apologize for, love,” Eames says, carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

“It’s just,” Arthur says, then sniffles. “I just keep forgetting that she’s dead, and I . . . I’m about to bury my sister, Eames, how is that possible? How is it possible that two nights ago I was joking with her on the phone and now she’s - she’s gone? How?” His voice has taken on a desperate edge, and Eames has a moment of wishing he could go back in time and stop this all from happening, anything to wipe that look out of Arthur’s eyes, anything to get his voice back to normal.

“I don’t know, Arthur, I don’t know,” he says instead, because he really, really doesn’t.

“It’s so unfair, Eames! How come the guy who was fucking pissed behind the wheel, how come he’s okay and my sister’s dead? How is that fair in any way at all?” Arthur chokes out, still leaning into Eames.

Eames doesn’t even try to come up with a response, because Arthur’s right, it isn’t fair. He just pulls Arthur closer and holds him until Arthur says, “Okay, okay, we need to go inside, I promised my parents I’d help - ” he cuts himself off, voice breaking again. He leans out of Eames’ grip, but grabs for his hand as they walk through the door.

Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand again, willing himself to be strong, if only for Arthur’s sake.

+++++

The days following their fight were miserable.

Despite the fact that Arthur and Eames were in the same bunk, Eames hardly saw Arthur at all. Arthur spent most of his time with Dom and Eames spent his time with all of his other friends, mainly Yusuf. Everyone could tell that something was wrong but no one wanted to ask Arthur, and when someone tried to ask Eames he completely ignored them, changing the subject.

Three days after the fight, Eames was sitting in his bed during flashlight time and recounting what had been said when he realized: during his rant,  _Arthur had said that he loved Eames._

It wasn’t something either of them had said yet, and although Eames was sorry that this was the way it was said for the first time, during a fight, he couldn’t stop the warm feeling that spread through him, because _Arthur loved him._ Of course, this was quickly followed up by the aggravating realization that he and Arthur were currently and indefinitely broken up. 

Eames covered his face with his hands and moaned. Nash called out, “Gross, Eames, at least go to the bathroom!” to which he responded, “Fuck off, perv!” This got a few snickers from some other boys in the bunk, which Eames pointedly ignored to go back to his session of self-pity.

Not that he hadn’t regretted it the last couple of days, but  _God_ \- remembering that was like a slap across the face, and he couldn’t believe what he had done. He wasn’t angry at Arthur anymore, even though he was still a little bit baffled at why Arthur had no faith in, well, anyone - he just wanted to be with Arthur again. But he remembered some of the things that had been said and was starting to lose hope that that would ever happen. 

The next day, he walked up to Yusuf and said, “I need your help.”

Yusuf looked up disinterestedly. “Oh? What’s in it for me?”

Eames considered for a second. “If it works, I won’t be mopey all the time anymore. I think that should be incentive enough.”

Yusuf sighed. “The sad thing is you’re correct. Okay then, what do you need help with?”

“Well, uh, you see,” Eames started. This was the part he was dreading most, because it involved telling Yusuf about both his and Arthur’s sexuality, and admitting that they had been in a relationship. “Up until a few days ago, Arthur and I . . . well, we were together.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m assuming you want my help getting back together with him?” Yusuf asked distractedly.

“Yeah, that’d - wait. You know!?” Eames asked, slightly alarmed.

“Well, yeah. Most everyone knows, Eames, or at least we’ve all guessed. You two really aren’t as subtle as you’d like to believe. I mean, there’s been rumors about you two since second summer,” Yusuf said. Yusuf’s words hit Eames and he swore under his breath. Not only were he and Arthur broken up, but the argument that had split them up was a totally moot point because  _everyone already knew._

“Shit. Fucking shit,” Eames said, louder.

“What?”

“The reason we broke up was because I wanted to come out and he didn’t, and now you’re telling me that it doesn’t even matter because we’re already pretty much out!” Eames exclaimed, and Yusuf’s expression finally melted into something other than disinterest. 

“Oh, dude, that fucking sucks,” Yusuf said, giving him a sympathetic look.

“I have to go find Arthur right now, fuck,” Eames said, taking off at a run toward the archery shack, Arthur’s go to spot when he was upset. Sure enough, when Eames arrived at the shack he saw that Arthur was the only one there besides the counselor. But even the counselor seemed like she didn’t want to be there. Eames couldn’t blame her - the intensity with which Arthur was nocking and shooting arrows would scare anyone.

“Arthur!” Eames shouted, coming to a stop. Arthur turned around, bow still nocked, and Eames regretted for a quick second calling Arthur’s name while he was still armed.

“What do you want, Eames?” Arthur asked sharply.

“To talk to you.”

“And why should I talk to you?” Arthur asked, laying his bow down and slowly slipping off his arm guard and gloves.

“Because I’m sorry and I miss you,” Eames said, and Arthur froze.

He didn’t respond, just picked up his bow again. For a second, Eames was actually afraid that Arthur was going to try and hurt him. But after looking at Eames for a few seconds, he turned around and walked towards the shack. He put away his gear and said a quick thank you to the counselor, who seemed more than a little relieved that Arthur was leaving.

“You have the remaining ten minutes of choice period. So you might want to get started,” Arthur said as he approached.

“Thanks, love,” Eames said, and then internally flinched at his use of the pet name, not sure how Arthur would react. However, if Arthur had any reaction, it was just as internal as Eames’ flinch.

There were a few seconds of silence, and then Arthur said, “Feel free to start any time now.” The bite to his voice made Eames nervous.

He swallowed, looking for the familiar warmth in Arthur’s eyes. The eyes looking back at him, however, were cold.

“Arthur . . . Arthur, I’m so sorry. I realize that some of the things I said were things only a fucking idiot would say, so I guess that makes me an idiot, but I really am so proud to be with you and I just want to you show you off all the time, I guess it’s part of being in love? It just got to me, and I get that I wasn’t taking everything as seriously as I should’ve, I promise you I do, but I was right!”

“What do you mean, you were right?” Arthur asked, voice wary. Eames had noticed the way Arthur’s face changed slightly when Eames mentioned being in love, and it filled him with hope again.

“Everyone knows, Arthur! Everyone knows and _no one cares_ , ” Eames said. 

“What!?!?” Arthur almost shrieked. “Eames, fucking hell, if you outed us just to prove a point - ”

“Of course I didn’t! God, Arthur, who do you think I am? You made it very clear that you didn’t want to be out, what kind of person would I be if I ignored that?” Eames exclaimed. “No, I didn’t out us - apparently people have been speculating about us since second summer, Arthur. Everyone kind of figured it out on their own, or at least they’ve guessed.”

Arthur had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry. But what was I supposed to think when you said that everyone knows?”

Eames shrugged. “It’s okay. Just - I’ve missed you a lot over these past couple of days. I’m so incredibly sorry for everything, especially breaking up with you because I totally shouldn’t have done that. I was really angry, but . . . if you’d forgive me, I’d love to be with you again.”

Arthur sighed. “I know I wasn’t exactly being rational, either. The thing is . . . one of my old friends outed me at school, and it’s been terrible. I mean, of course the things they say are idiotic and the one time they tried to physically intimidate me obviously failed, but it still really sucks.”

“Oh. Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” Eames said.

“I just - I didn’t want the same thing to happen here,” Arthur said, and Eames knew he was forgiven because there was familiarity in Arthur’s eyes again. 

“Well, we don’t have to formally out ourselves if you don’t want to,” Eames hazarded. 

“You seemed pretty gung ho about it on Saturday,” Arthur said, but his voice was more probing than accusatory.

“I’ll admit I didn’t really understand the gravity of the situation, so if you don’t want to then we won’t,” Eames said.

“Thanks,” Arthur said with a small smile. “Just - thanks.”

Eames wanted to kiss Arthur so badly it was almost physically painful, but he wasn’t quite sure how Arthur would react to that. He didn’t want to risk it, especially since they had just gotten back together.

But then Arthur glanced around surreptitiously, and leaned in to give Eames a peck, there and gone so quick Eames almost didn’t believe it happened. But no - Arthur’s cheeks were flushed ever so slightly, and Eames felt a grin break out over his face.

“God, I missed you so much,” Eames said.

“Me, too.”

The director’s voice came over the loudspeaker, announcing that choice period was over, and Eames couldn’t help but smile when Arthur jumped a little.

Arthur and Eames walked back to their bunk in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, as if they were relearning each other and learning what it meant to have the word “love” floating around without making a big deal of it. 

Eames looked over at Arthur, and couldn’t help but think that he was the luckiest guy on Earth.

+++++

Arthur becomes detached as soon as they walk through the doors of the funeral home. Not physically detached, no - he holds onto Eames’ hand as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded - but he becomes cool, in charge Arthur, Arthur without any emotion.

He tells the movers where the podium should go and how the chairs should be arranged, then goes over the the rabbi to give him the order of the speeches. Arthur himself is going last, even though it’s traditional for the parents to have that spot.

His voice only cracks when he tells them where to put the casket.

Eames stands by him the whole time.

After around a half hour, people start filtering in. They offer Arthur and his parents their condolences, and Arthur thanks all of them, leaving his face carefully blank.

Eames is introduced over and over again to a plethora of extended family members. None of them make any comments about it, but Eames does see some relatives send pointed glances toward the place where Arthur’s hand is clasped inside his. Eames always gives these people especially charming smiles.

There’s a little bit of small talk flitting around the room, although most people are quiet. Arthur’s mom has been crying since before Arthur and Eames arrived, and her sister is currently holding her as she cries.

Around ten minutes later, they begin to file into the synagogue. Eames follows Arthur to the front row, and notices that this action earns him quite a few glares.

“Love, I don’t think I should be here,” Eames whispers to him. “This seems to be for family members only, and I barely even knew Emily.”

“No,” Arthur says, looking straight ahead, his hand still clasped in Eames’. “Stay. Please.”

“You know I’d love to, but people aren’t too happy with my being here in general, especially now that I’m - ”

“Please, Eames. I need you,” Arthur says, and Eames’ mouth goes dry. 

“Alright,” Eames says, too shocked by this confession to say much else.

The rabbi walks up to the podium and begins to say some prayer in Hebrew. Eames mostly checks out in favor of concentrating on Arthur. He runs his knuckles up and down Arthur’s arm as the rabbi begins to talk about Emily.

The rabbi says a few more prayers and then starts to call people up to the podium to speak. Eames listens to Emily’s boyfriend - or ex, now, he guesses - make promises of eternal love, to Emily’s best friend recount tales of mischief, to cousins talking about family gatherings, to Arthur’s parents talk about how Emily made them so proud, how much she’ll be missed. Everyone cries.

Arthur curls more into Eames with each passing speech, but he doesn’t cry. Eames just holds him close, occasionally pressing a kiss into his hair.

Then the rabbi calls Arthur’s name. Arthur picks his head up from Eames’ shoulder and takes a stuttering breath. He stands up slowly and walks to the podium.

He clears his throat before starting. “Emily, as you all know, was my sister,” Arthur starts, voice soft. “She . . . she meant everything to me.” Arthur pauses to take a breath. “Ever since I was young, I’ve always known that I had someone I could look up to and ask for guidance, no matter what. Sure, we fought sometimes, but what group of siblings doesn’t? But even when we were fighting . . . I always loved her.”

Tears are beginning to fall down Arthur’s face. His voice is choked, just as it had been last night over the phone, and Eames wants nothing more than to hold Arthur forever.

“I just . . . she’s been gone for less than 24 hours and I already miss my big sister,” Arthur manages before the sobs rack his body. He quickly walks down the steps and straight back to Eames, almost crashing into him. 

Eames pulls him close and whispers over and over in his ear, “Darling . . . darling, I love you, shh, it’s okay, I love you.”

Arthur doesn’t stop crying until the end of the service, but it doesn’t matter, because Eames doesn’t once stop holding him.

+++++

During their fifth summer, both Arthur and Eames were chosen to be Colour War captains, Eames for green and Arthur for blue. This was a huge honor, as only four senior campers were selected each year, two boys and two girls. The only issue was that this meant that Arthur and Eames were on opposite teams.  
  
It was, surprisingly, the first time they had ever been on opposite teams. It shouldn’t have mattered anyways, because really, at the end of the day it is just a friendly competition and more about the experience than anything else. Every bunk had a strict “No Colour War in the bunk” rule that made it clear that super competitiveness was not acceptable. So it shouldn’t be an issue at all, except Arthur and Eames (Arthur especially) are both viciously competitive.

Arthur shed practically all his guardedness during Colour War, cheering along just as loud, if not louder, than everyone else. Eames loves this Arthur, totally carefree and fearless, filled with so much spirit and so little shame.

Colour War broke over dinner one night, and as soon as the break started, Arthur grabbed on to Eames’ wrist and dragged him toward their assistant director, who had exchanged a t-shirt for green and blue paint on his chest.

“Eames, Eames, this has to be it!” Arthur said excitedly. “This has to be the actual break, they’ve already had so many fake outs, it has to be!”

Eames laughed. “You’d think the novelty would wear thin after five years, but no, you still get just as excited every year.”

“Shhh!” Arthur hissed, listening raptly to the assistant director. Eames just chuckled and listened, too, although it was more to indulge Arthur than anything else. Arthur’s always been the one that’s into the gimmicky stuff - Eames just likes the competition.

Twenty minutes and one sore wrist later, Eames is standing on the complete opposite side of camp, still next to Arthur, and listening to their director say, “Head to the amphitheater for some fun, because four day Colour War has begun!”

Admittedly not the best rhyme, but before Eames could consider that further, Arthur took his hand and forced him to run toward the amphitheater with the rest of the stampeding campers.

Arthur pulled Eames to a stop at the top right part of the amphitheater, almost shaking with excitement. Eames peered jealously at all the Junior and Middle campers who got to sit down on the benches - since they were eligible to be Captains as Senior Campers, they had to stand in a huddle until Head Staff announced the two Captains. Then Eames could sit.

Once everyone was in place, all of Head Staff began to name the Generals. Eames barely paid attention, because in this huddle of the Senior boys he was fascinated to find a kind of camaraderie and brotherhood that was not felt at other times, what with all the petty drama that’s always present.

The Senior boys Division Head stepped up to the front of the amphitheater. “I will now name the male captain for the blue team.”

Arthur gripped Eames’ arm, and the huddle became even closer.

“Around camp, you can always see this guy sharpening his athletic skills, sometimes even to the point where he’ll beat the counselors at their own activity. He probably knows more about Colour War history than you know about your family, and what’s even more impressive is that he’s won the Golden Arrow award four times, even though he’s only been going to camp for five - ”

and then Eames couldn’t even hear what else was said, because their huddle was exploding with sound. Arthur was standing stock still next to Eames, and Eames was smiling and shaking him and saying, “That’s you, darling, that’s you!”

Arthur seemed to jolt back to reality when their Division Head shouted, “And the Captain for the Blue Team is Arthur Davidson!”

Arthur gave Eames a quick hug and then ran down to the front of the amphitheater, the smile on his face so large that Eames was almost afraid that his jaw was going to break. Then again, Eames was smiling almost as much as Arthur - he knew how much Arthur wanted this, had wanted this since their first summer. In the back of his mind, he realized they were announcing the next male Captain, but he was too caught up in happiness for Arthur to really concentrate on what was being said.

Eames hoped that he was on Arthur’s team, but then he heard the huddle cheering again and Dom was pushing him forward and saying, “Yeah, Eames!”

“Wait, me?” Eames asked, and sure enough, the Division Head was saying his name, and Eames walked down to the front of the amphitheater in a stocky manner, still not quite believing it.

Arthur’s smile only got bigger after Eames’ name was called. “Congrats,” he mouthed to Eames, and Eames gave him a quick thumbs up. He didn’t really listen when they began calling off who was on which team, too concentrated on the way Arthur was smiling and tucking back the few strands of hair that had fallen loose during the break. Whenever Arthur caught Eames looking at him, his smile would ratchet up a notch and he would get this hungry look in this eyes, as if making Captain had made Eames more attractive to him.

If this were the case, Eames sure hoped he could take advantage of that soon.

However, because they were both Captains, they had to go to meetings for their respective teams during choice period, to debate team name possibilities and get activity assignments for the next day.

By the time the team meetings were over, it was already Canteen Time. Arthur and Eames double teamed their counselor and almost begged him to let them go back to the bunk by themselves, referencing the fact that they were Captains. Their counselor finally relented, and Arthur and Eames practically sprinted back to the bunk.

Arthur’s mouth was on Eames’ the second they got through the door. It was more of a crash of lips than anything else, and both of their hands were wandering along the other’s body, Arthur’s up Eames’ t-shirt and Eames’ hands going straight for Arthur’s arse. He gave it a squeeze and Arthur moaned, bucking forward into Eames.

“Fuck, when they called your name I just wanted to jump you right there,” Eames said in between kisses, his voice rough, as he thrust his erection against Arthur’s. “You just looked so happy and so utterly - ”

Whatever Eames was going to say was swallowed up by Arthur’s tongue finding Eames’. There was more urgency in the movements of their hips now - they were practiced in it, sure, but it still gave both of them the same heady rush every time. 

“What do you think I was -  _fuck_ \- thinking about that whole time we were just standing there?” Arthur panted out. 

“ _Eames,_ ” he ground out a couple of seconds later when Eames’ hand found Arthur’s cock through the thin fabric of his sport shorts and boxers. “Fuck.”

Their mouths met roughly once again, tongues clashing and lips mashing together indelicately. And then Eames ground his hips against Arthur one more time and Arthur cried out, tucking his head into Eames’ shoulder as he came. Eames wasn’t too far behind, and for a while afterwards they just stayed there, panting against the door of their bunk.

“We should probably - ” Eames started.

“Get changed, yeah,” Arthur finished.

There was a certain adrenaline pumping in the air between them; they’d done this before, yes - in fact, they’d done more - but never at camp. Before that night, they’d never gone past kissing on camp grounds. It felt somehow more . . . forbidden, here. 

“Well it looks like these shorts are shot to shit,” Arthur said, but he was smiling, sated and languid, and he took Eames’ hand and they headed to the other side of the bunk, to their beds. They both disposed of their soiled shorts, and then Arthur sprayed a shit ton of Febreeze to cover up the smell. The last thing they needed was to get caught right after being named Captains.

They climbed up to Eames’ bed and lay side by side, letting their fingers tangle together idly. 

“What’s your team name?” Arthur asked softly.

“Emerald City,” Eames replied. “You?”

“Blue Lagoon,” Arthur said, just as softly. There was a pause in the conversation, and then: “I like your name better than ours, to be honest. It’s got a better ring to it.”

“Ah, well, you know what they say about the team with the better name - ”

“But my team is still going to kick your team’s ass,” Arthur said with a smile, and Eames kissed him on the lips, just because he could. 

When the rest of the bunk came back in from Canteen, both Arthur and Eames were in their respective beds. Arthur was asleep, but Eames was staring up at the ceiling with a smile on his face. He couldn’t imagine his life ever getting better than this.

+++++

The burial itself is terrible. 

Arthur isn’t crying anymore, had stopped sometime during the drive, and it’s almost worse now, because at least when Arthur was crying Eames could hug him, comfort him, do  something  to help. But this Arthur just stands in between his mom and Eames, looking at the pile of dirt that will soon be burying his sister with a blank expression on his face, blinking every so often. His grip on Eames’ hand is tight, but Eames can tell he’s not there, not really.

The rabbi says a few more prayers and then calls up Arthur and his father to start shoveling the dirt onto the coffin. Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand as Arthur starts to walk closer to the grave. He and his dad both shovel three or four times, and then Arthur returns, handing the shovel to his mom.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Arthur whispers to Eames, each word measured and precise. “But I’d really appreciate it if you took part in the shoveling.” It’s stilted, and a little too formal for even Arthur. Eames can tell how much Arthur is struggling to keep his composure, and Eames just wishes their was some way he could let Arthur know that he doesn’t have to keep his composure, not around Eames, anyways. 

“If you want me to, I will,” Eames says back, softly.

“After all my cousins go, just shovel three or four times and then give it to my dad or the rabbi,” Arthur instructs, and Eames nods.

Eames waits until Arthur nods at him to retrieve the shovel from one of Arthur’s cousins. He does exactly as Arthur said, shoveling three times into the grave before handing the shovel to the rabbi and heading back to Arthur.

Eames runs his knuckle up and down Arthur’s arm as Arthur stares straight ahead. After around twenty minutes, the grave site is almost completely filled - the rest will be left to the people who work at maintaining the cemetery. The rabbi says two closing prayers, the Mourner’s Kaddish and a small proverb in English, and the guests begin to disperse, a somber air surrounding everyone.

As they walk back to the car, Arthur’s face is still stony, but his eyes are wobbling, as if he could break any second.

Eames remembers the day his mom had been buried. He had no one there to support him, no friends or family to hold him as he fell apart piece by piece, no one to hug while he cried after seeing his mom’s body during the wake, wearing too much makeup and her fanciest - but least favourite - dress.

There was absolutely no one for Eames, and he considers that week and a half to be one of the loneliest times of his life.

Eames is determined that Arthur won’t look back on this time and remember a feeling of isolation. Eames remembers how the first time he felt okay was when Arthur had comforted him that first night of their third summer, and he wants Arthur to feel okay, too.

They reach Arthur’s car, and Arthur starts to prattle on about how they’re going to his parent’s house to sit shiva, and what exactly sitting shiva is, especially in regards to his family, who aren’t orthodox, but conservative. Arthur’s hands are shaking as he presses the “unlock” button, talking about the process of shiva, how he understands if Eames can’t stay for the whole week, seriously, he does, and Eames kisses him just because he can’t bear it for another second.

Arthur whimpers into his mouth, his hand threading through Eames’ hair. Eames pulls back after only a few seconds, and Arthur tries to chase Eames’ mouth with his own. Eames shakes his head and pulls him closer, encasing Arthur’s face in his hands.

“I don’t care how long it is, Arthur, really,” Eames says quietly. “I will stay with you for as long as you need me, because I love you, yeah?”

Arthur swallows and nods. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

Eames lets go of Arthur’s face and opens the driver’s side door for Arthur with a mock bow. Arthur gives Eames a small, quicksilver smile before getting inside.

+++++

One of the definite pros of being a Colour War Captain, Eames thought, was the wake up. 

He was standing next to Arthur outside bunk G4, which was home to a group of Junior Division girls. Arthur had a whistle around his neck and was holding two cookie platters under his right arm. Eames himself was armed with a wooden spoon and frying pan. Of course, they weren’t the only ones - their Generals were there, too, as well as two first year Seniors, who were eligible to be Lieutenants. 

All together, there were eight of them - the two Generals, four Captains and the two Lieutenants - all of them holding various objects that create loud noise. The General for the green team held up three fingers, then two, and on one they all stormed into the bunk.

Eames beat his wooden spoon against his frying pan, yelling, “WAKE UP, WAKE UP, IT’S COLOUR WAR, WAKE UP!” and then laughing, because Arthur looked absolutely  _ridiculous_ , his cheeks puffed up from blowing his whistle, slamming his cookie trays together as hard as he could. Arthur turned around as soon as he heard Eames’ laugh, his face somehow melting into a scowl even while he continued to whistle. Eames just laughed harder, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him. A thought occurred to him -  _why not?_

Eames liked that thought very much.

Eames strode across the bunk to Arthur. Arthur looked up at him and gave him a quizzical look, but Eames just gave him a light push so that they were in the bunk’s bathroom, slapping the whistle out of his mouth and pressing a light kiss there instead. As soon as he retreated, he ran back to the main area of the bunk, partly because they were starting to leave, and also partly because it would not be good if Arthur started cursing him out in front of Junior campers.

Of course, abandoning Arthur did nothing to calm him down. “Eames,” he hissed while they walked to the next bunk they were supposed to wake up. “What the fuck was that!? Anyone could’ve walked in on us!”

“But no one did,” Eames returned, entirely blasé.

“Yeah, no one did, but what if someone had? What were you thinking!?” Arthur responded.

“I was thinking,” Eames said. “That if I didn’t get my hands on you right that second, I might explode. Enthusiasm looks good on you, darling.”

Arthur sputtered a bit, blushing furiously, although he would definitely deny it if asked. He stalked up the stairs into the next bunk, and Eames couldn’t’ve helped the hugeness of his smile, even if he tried.

Both Arthur and Eames played their absolute toughest over the course of the next three days, each giving just as good as they got. During an extra competitive round of basketball, both of them tripped over one another and ended up faceplanting directly into the pavement of the court. Even though everyone kept telling them to go to the nurse, they both insisted they were fine, falling over each other to get to the bench, laughing hysterically the whole time. They spent the rest of the activity period going around camp cheering on their respective teams at various activities.

On the last day of Colour War, there was a collaborated event right before Sing that wasn’t worth any points, but rather to show camaraderie across the teams: The Relay. During this event, Eames had to run a lap with Arthur on his back. Arthur protested this from the moment he found out to the moment they lined up at the starting line, muttering things to himself which were probably of the murderous variety. However, as soon as the whistle blew and Eames took off, Arthur’s protests melted into laughter as he yelled at Eames to slow down, Jesus Christ, we’re going to get hurt.

Eames didn’t slow down, Arthur didn’t stop laughing, and in the end they came in second place, right after the female Generals. 

Arthur still hadn’t stopped laughing even as they came to a stop after the finish line. Eames turned his head to the side, looking at Arthur’s laughing face as Arthur said, “Let me down, Eames, God.”

_This_ , Eames realized with a start.  _I want this forever._

In the end, Arthur’s team won by six points. Eames couldn’t even pretend to be upset as Arthur dimpled in front of the camp, especially when his team finished singing about their generals and moved onto, “We love you Arthur, oh yes we do! We don’t love anyone as much as you! When you’re not near us, we’re blue! Oh, Arthur, we love you - yes we do!”

Eames sung along, and when Arthur noticed, his smile became impossibly larger.

No, Eames  _really_ wasn’t upset at all.

+++++

Eames stays with Arthur for the entire duration of shiva.

Most of the days, this means Arthur driving them over to his parent’s house to accept condolences and pre-made meals, although days two and five take place in his apartment. This means sharing memories of Emily, things she did and things she wanted to and will never be able to do. This means that sometimes Arthur cries, and sometimes he doesn’t. Eames is there either way.

The rabbi comes over to whoever’s house shiva is taking place at, and does two services each day. By the end of the week, Eames can recite the Mourner’s Kaddish by heart.

Arthur improves slightly each day. The shift is small, almost imperceptible, and obviously he stills feels off-kilter and upset, but Eames can feel him slowly coming to terms with what his life will be like now, sans Emily.

On the drive home from his parent’s house after the last day of shiva, Arthur looks at Eames and says, “You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

Eames startles. “If you think that’s best,” he hazards.

Arthur shrugs. “Well, it doesn’t make much sense for you to stay here, since I’m starting school again tomorrow. You’ve already missed a week of school for me, Eames.”

“You’ve missed a week of school, too,” Eames points out. “Then again, I suppose your reason is a little bit more legitimate than mine.”

“Just tell them you spent the week keeping someone sane,” Arthur says as he pulls into the lot for his apartment. His tone is casual, light, but his gaze is heavy and serious when it lands on Eames.

“Really?” Eames asks, his tone just as light, heart beating frantically in his chest.

“Yes,” Arthur responds, pulling the key out of the ignition. The car stills beneath them. “You, uh - you really did. You did more than I ever could’ve asked, Eames. Thank you.”

“Anytime, love,” Eames assures him, and Arthur smiles. It’s a small one, sure, but it’s the first one to reach his eyes since Eames arrived.

The next morning, Arthur pushes Eames against his car and kisses him with such fervor that they’re both shaking when it’s over.

“Call me tonight to bitch about all your makeup work?” Arthur says, still gripping Eames’ newly wrinkled t-shirt.

“Mmm, of course, darling,” Eames says, kissing Arthur one last time before stepping into his car.

Arthur starts jogging toward the sidewalk, already a little bit late to school.

“Hey!” Eames calls out, rolling down his window. Arthur’s already far enough away that he shouldn’t be able to hear Eames, but he turns around anyways.

“Yeah?” he shouts back.

“We still on for February?” Eames asks, alluding to their previously scheduled trip to England with Eames’ dad.

“Yeah!” Arthur shouts back, smiling for real now. “I can’t wait!”

“Me neither,” Eames says, and then waves as Arthur turns back around and heads to school. He looks so much better than he did even yesterday. He looks like he’s on his way to being good, and if not, he at least seems to be okay.

As Eames backs out of the lot, he can’t help but think that maybe, as long as he and Arthur have each other, they’ll always be at least okay.  



End file.
